No one will ever write the story of some old white junkie broad who grew up in hell and discovered the alchemy of turning pain into love. I look back and it's so clear: I am the magic. The world is in me. I am what I was running towards all this time.
God damn it, man. Life is fucking beautiful. I've always liked it rough, because more truth leaks out in rough places and I hunger to understand most of all. To see. And then I feel compelled to speak the greatest treasures I find along the way. I don't imagine it's important to anyone but me. That's okay. That it matters to me, finally, is enough.
